Page 86 of Morsel

With my pants hanging around my hips, I crawl to the ground and dig under the bed, picking through the last occupant’s knick knacks for my first trophy. My back heats under Mona’s heavy stare, and I’m glad for it. She’s not backing down; she’s still willing to challenge me. I like that. There’s a thrill in her defiance, especially when she doesn’t know the full scope of the situation.

She thinks I’d let him live? If I had, wouldn’t he be here right now?

She’s the stupid motherfucker.

I dangle what’s left of the ponytail, and the decaying head swings back and forth, the exposed section of brain wriggling with maggots.

Her chin trembles. Her lips open.

She can’t speak.

I put his head right next to hers, then I hold myself over her, resting on my forearms, my dick right at her entrance. Her mouth gapes at her dead husband’s head, his lips opened in a silent wail. Her rounded stumps jerk to push me away, but she’s so fucking helpless.

I lick her ear, and it’s salty with her sweat. Maybe I’ll make chips with her cartilage, or maybe I’ll cook it down until it’s soft and chewy.

I wrap my lips around her earlobe. “I killed him,” I whisper. I shove my whole length inside of her. She whimpers, and I stick my tongue in her ear, lapping at her waxy flesh. “I killed him and ground up some of his meat. I even stuffed the rest of his body into the furnace at the processing plant. He won’t bother us anymore.”

Tears roll down her cheek. I lick from her ear down to her neck, tasting her natural sweat and oils. How hard do I need to bite to get a chunk of meat straight from a woman’s skin? One day, I’ll test it out.

A shrill cry explodes from her, stabbing my eardrum. I pull back.

“You’re jealous,” she says, her lips curled at the ends. “You’re fucking jealous of my husband.”

I realize then that the piercing noise was laughter. She’s too scared and shocked to be able to laugh normally. Maybe forced amputations in quick succession fuck with your entire body, even your vocal cords. To be honest, I don’t know why her laugh sounds so weird, but I know she’s laughing at me.

“I didn’t kill Artemis because I’m jealous,” I snap. “I killed him because he would’ve tried to protect you. But you don’t get it, do you? All I wanted was a true connection with someone who understands me, and you and that stupid motherfucker?—”

“You don’t want connection,” she shouts, green spittle splattering my face. “You want to control me. You’re like a rat, clinging to the first shelter you’ve found, and the fucked-up thing is you know you can do better. You even tried. You promised me a life where you’d only eat little parts of me, but you chose to be this person. You want to be a rapist. You want to be a monster. You want to be a fucking cannibal!”

I pull out and kneel on the bed, straddling her, my limp dick hanging between my legs. I don’t see Mona anymore. I see my mother lying on the dining table. Her rotting stomach. Her missing tongue. Her teeth clacking, the dead bitch returning from the grave to mock me one last time.

“You’re just a needy, stupid, pathetic little barnacle, latching onto the first person who gives you attention,” Mona shouts. Her harsh laughter reverberates in the small room. “No wonder your mother left you.”

She keeps yelling. Laughing. Making fun of me. Everything out of her mouth is about how pathetic I am.

I’m not the one who has one arm and no legs. I’m not the one who has no choice but to eat green smoothies for the rest of my short existence. I’m not the one with my dead husband’s decapitated head next to me.

I’m not the one who has to watch a cannibal eat her body.

Ever since I left the art gallery, the idea of killing her has been cooking in the back of my mind. I told myself I’d capture her, keep her, and feed on her. I knew she couldn’t live forever, and I told myself killing her wasn’t the point. I told myself I wanted to savor her body until she understands me.

And then what?

It’s not like I can let her go. If I drop her off at her house, the police will eventually arrest me. And if I throw her out into the field to survive in the wild, she’ll die anyway. The wolves will find her, or her corpse will become fertilizer.

A barking laugh chortles from my chest. This time, Mona freezes, suddenly aware that now, I’m the one who’s mocking her.

Maybe she is right. I’ve always been terrified of being abandoned again, and that’s why I stopped dating and stuck to sex workers for so long. It’s why Mona seemed like the first good thing to happen to me.

Maybe I am a clingy, needy, obsessed man who needs to feed on a woman to be complete. Maybe being that pathetic is worth it, because I get to see the struggle, the reluctance, the beautiful fear in her eyes as she bows down to my control.

I tried to suppress it. I tried to tell myself killing a woman wasn’t a part of my fantasy, but now I know it’s the divine part I’ve buried deep inside of myself so that no one knew the real me. I’m mad at myself for that. Why did I want so badly to be like everyone else?

Everyone has fantasies, and maybe some of us—the rare, exceptional few of us—dream of human meat. Even then, some of the fantasizers try to act like death doesn’t actually exist in our sexual dreams. No, these sensual interests aren’t that scary. After all, it’s just a pornstar wriggling in a sleeping bag, pretending it’s a giant carnivorous worm; it’s just a computer-generated dinosaur eating a screaming, naked woman; or maybe it’s just an erotic horror story about a man devouring a woman piece by piece. Maybe all of it is just a reflection of the way we dehumanize each other in our daily lives, just like Mona tried to explain in her tired art project. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. Maybe none of it is real. Maybe we only like the idea of it.

But I know I’m different from them, and I’m done acting like death isn’t a part of the desire for me. I’m not going to pretend anymore. I’m done with roleplaying.

Fuck the fantasies.

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